


The Dying of the Light

by Integrandia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, One-Shot, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Integrandia/pseuds/Integrandia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending to 10x03 (so, obviously, spoilers for that episode). Castiel admits something to Dean, and Dean is spurred to act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dying of the Light

_"Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_  
 _Because their words had forked no lightning they_  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_  
 _Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_  
 _—Dylan Thomas_

“You look terrible,” Castiel observed as he paused the doorway. It was true. Dean’s face was haggard, his eyes shadowed, his shoulders hunched. But it was more than that; with his Grace temporarily restored, Castiel could once again see _Dean,_ not only his body but his soul. The angel could still remember the first time he witnessed Dean’s soul, scarred by the torments of Hell yet shining like a beacon, calling out for redemption. It was a beautiful, just, loyal soul, though too often shadowed and burdened with guilt.

Now that soul was also overlaid, like oil on water, with the effects of the Mark of Cain. Castiel did not know what the Mark was doing to Dean or what it might continue to do, but he could see it plainly. It was sickening, in the sense that it made Castiel feel strangely nauseous or headachy, if nausea or headaches could be felt by an angel. Below the disturbing, shifting essence of the Mark, Castiel could also perceive the blackness of a demon, still lingering in Dean in spite of the consecrated blood that flowed through his veins. His Grace itched to stretch out and soothe Dean’s soul, cradle it and protect it as he had once, when he bore it out of Hell. But healing Dean was neither possible nor permitted, and so Castiel sighed to himself as Dean responded.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to lie every now and again.”

“No, it wouldn’t kill me. I just—you—”

“Forget it.” There was an edge to Dean’s tone, but he seemed to deliberately set it aside. He stood and approached the angel. “Well, you, on the other hand, you’re looking good. So—are you back?”

“Temporarily, at least.” Castiel hesitated. His thoughts flickered backwards to earlier in the day.

“Cas?” Dean prompted when the angel continued to stare vacantly into the middle distance. “You still with me?”

Castiel turned his gaze back to Dean. Along with the sick feeling at the sight of Dean’s soul was the old, familiar fondness, the fierce loyalty, the wonder of understanding and being understood. “Dean... I find that I want to confess something.”

Dean’s brow quirked. “What is this, ‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned’?”

“Not exactly.” Another moment of hesitation. “Dean, I nearly died today.”

That got Dean’s attention. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Another angel. She wanted to kill me. It was... probably deserved.”

“Deserved? The hell do you mean, _deserved?_ Some other angel tries to gank you, and you’re okay with it?”

“Dean. I killed her companion.” Castiel closed his eyes briefly against a surge of guilt. “They just wanted to live free, to be undisturbed by the forces of Heaven.”

“So she came after you on a revenge trip?” Dean’s voice was softer now. “Did you have to kill her, too?”

“No,” Castiel said, the word dragging over his lips. “I did not kill her. But it is her Grace that now sustains me.” Castiel could still feel echos of Adina within his Grace, notes of desperation and hope and despair and anger thrumming against his identity. The echos never disappeared, not entirely. He would carry Adina just has he carried the others, for as long as his existence was dragged out.

Dean took a step forward, placed a cautious hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey, Cas, I’m sorry, man. I know how much it hurts you to see your siblings get killed.”

“You don’t understand, Dean,” Castiel bristled. “I _wanted_ to die. I _wanted_ Adina to kill me. My borrowed Grace was running out and I just wanted it to be all over.”

The admission hung between them. Dean drew back, shocked. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Finally, Castiel turned away. “Dean, I am tired. I cannot—I _will not_ —see another one of my brothers or sisters die so that I can steal their Grace. I have already been given far too many second chances. I—” He paused. Glanced back at Dean. “I wish for my work to be done.”

It felt liberating to finally say it. He had tried to tell Hannah, but she was an angel, an eternal being of perfect obedience. She couldn’t comprehend wanting to end. But, as Castiel well knew, Dean could. Dean had been longing for an _end_ for as long as Castiel had known him, even when Castiel was the one pushing him to continue, to stretch himself far beyond his limits, to fracture himself again and again on duty and responsibility and doing what was right.

Dean didn’t speak. Castiel forced himself to turn, once again fully facing the man in front of him, raising his chin so that he could meet Dean’s eyes. Castiel was shocked to find them shining with tears.

“Cas...” Dean said gently. “What the hell, man. What happened to you.”

“My Grace was removed by Metatron,” Castiel reminded him. “Because of that—”

Dean shook his head, but his mouth turned up in a smile. “That’s not what I meant. I meant...” Dean trailed off, considering. “I meant, you used to be Heaven’s perfect little soldier before you met me. You did what you were told, you didn’t ask questions, everything was peachy.”

“Everything was not ‘peachy.’ Though I did not know it, Heaven was trying to trigger the Apocalypse and destroy the world. We were both pawns in their game.”

“Yeah, and look at us now.” Dean shook his head again. The silence stretched between them.

“I am... grateful,” Castiel said, choosing his words carefully, “to talk with you again. Like this. I have... missed it.”

“Yeah?” Dean searched Castiel’s face. “Me too.”

Another silence suggested to Castiel that it was time to leave. “Perhaps we can talk again soon. You should take some time to recover.” He turned to go.

~ ~ ~ ~

Dean had never been good at this kind of thing. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what “this kind of thing” was—talking about feelings, offering a sympathetic ear, or maybe, just maybe, actually acknowledging what Castiel meant to him.

But Cas had just flat-out told him he was suicidal, and as the angel started to walk away, Dean was hit with a sudden and undeniable conviction that he had to say something. He had to get Cas to stay.

“Cas—” Dean started, not having any idea what to say next. Still, Castiel turned back in the doorway.

“Is there something you need, Dean?”

“Need? No, I... It’s not like that.” Dean sighed in frustration at himself, scrubbed a hand over his face, and tried again. “Cas, you can’t just tell me you want to die and then turn around and walk away.”

Castiel’s face quirked in confusion. “Dean, I appreciate that you were willing to listen, but I don’t expect anything of you. I wasn’t asking you to solve this problem... to ‘fix’ me.”

Dean took a half-step toward Cas, raised his arm in an aborted motion, stopped. He sighed again. “Would you just sit down for a minute?”

Castiel seemed to consider the request. Then, he stepped back into the room, seating himself primly on the edge of Dean’s bed.

Dean took the opportunity to sit down next to Cas, close but not too close. He stared at his hands. “I’m not trying to fix you, Cas. Truth is, there’s nothing I could do, and maybe you don’t need fixing, you know?” He glanced up, searching Cas’ face. “Maybe you’re not broken. Or maybe we’re both so broken, we can’t even pick up the pieces anymore.”

“We have been through a great deal,” Castiel agreed.

“That’s a fucking understatement.” Dean turned his attention back to his hands. They sat quietly for a long moment. “Man, what even is the point anymore?”

Cas’ gaze never wavered from Dean. “If this is your attempt to convince me not to give up on life, you may want to reconsider your methods.”

That earned a snort laugh from Dean. “I don’t know what I’m trying to do. I just... I don’t think you should have to be alone when you’re feeling like that.”

“Nor should you,” Castiel replied. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out a hand and rested it on Dean’s knee.

Dean stared, as if transfixed, at Cas’ fingers resting against his jeans. Tremendous loneliness welled up in Dean, and with it, helpless fury. How many times did the universe have to chew them up and spit them out, all of them—Dean and Cas and Sam and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and all the rest—how badly did they have to be broken before they could finally say “Enough”?

Dean didn’t remember Cas pulling him out of Hell. But he did remember Cas sitting with him on a park bench, talking about doubts. He remembered Cas sitting with him in a hospital room when Dean was at his lowest. He remembered Cas being there, time and again, for all of their mistakes and the ways they’d hurt each other and the ways they’d made the world worse instead of better. He didn’t want to keep doing it without Cas. He didn’t want Cas to leave.

His arm felt like an independent creature as it twitched and then moved, oh-so-deliberately, to rest his fingers on top of Castiel’s. Cas didn’t move a muscle, as though he were afraid to spook Dean. So Dean wormed his fingers between Cas’, twining their hands together.

“Cas, I don’t want you to go.”

A long silence. Then, “Do you mean you don’t want me to leave right now, or you don’t want me to die?”

Dean finally mustered the courage to look up and meet Cas’ eyes again. He thought he could see a spark of hope there. He wanted to see it grow into something more than just a spark.

“I mean—” Dean began, and then he shut off the hesitation, the fear, the self-doubt and self-loathing, closed his eyes, leaned in, and pressed their lips together. His fingers twitched spasmodically against Castiel’s hand.

Dean’s mind spun with a thousand awful scenarios of what might happen next. But Castiel didn’t leave him with them for long. Instead, the angel turned his body towards Dean, leaned closer, brought his free hand up to Dean’s cheek, and kissed back like a pro. There wasn’t a hint of surprise in his posture, or in his eyes when Dean opened his own to check. Instead, Cas’ eyes were filled with warmth and understanding.

Cas gently pulled back, though he left his hands where they were—one on Dean’s leg, and one on the side of his neck. “Then I won’t go,” he said simply.

With a half-sob of relief, Dean pulled Cas close and kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> After watching 10x03, I wanted to write an alternate ending that was all Destiel. It was originally supposed to be a lot more fluff and a lot more romance, but then Cas' suicidal tendencies kind of took over, and it ended up being much more angsty than I expected. Still, I'm happy with how it turned out, and I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
